THE intelligence with which Lestrade
greeted us was so momentous and so unexpected, that
we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson
sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of
his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at
Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his
brows drawn down over his eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The
plot thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,”
grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. “I seem
to have dropped into a sort of council of war.”
“Are you are you
sure of this piece of intelligence?” stammered
Gregson.
“I have just come from his room,”
said Lestrade. “I was the first to discover
what had occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s
view of the matter,” Holmes observed. “Would
you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?”
“I have no objection,”
Lestrade answered, seating himself. “I freely
confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was
concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh
development has shown me that I was completely mistaken.
Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out what
had become of the Secretary. They had been seen
together at Euston Station about half-past eight on
the evening of the third. At two in the morning
Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson
had been employed between 8.30 and the time of the
crime, and what had become of him afterwards.
I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description of
the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the
American boats. I then set to work calling upon
all the hotels and lodging-houses in the vicinity of
Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and
his companion had become separated, the natural course
for the latter would be to put up somewhere in the
vicinity for the night, and then to hang about the
station again next morning.”
“They would be likely to agree
on some meeting-place beforehand,” remarked
Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent
the whole of yesterday evening in making enquiries
entirely without avail. This morning I began very
early, and at eight o’clock I reached Halliday’s
Private Hotel, in Little George Street. On my
enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there,
they at once answered me in the affirmative.
“‘No doubt you are the
gentleman whom he was expecting,’ they said.
’He has been waiting for a gentleman for two
days.’
“‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
“‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished
to be called at nine.’
“‘I will go up and see him at once,’
I said.
“It seemed to me that my sudden
appearance might shake his nerves and lead him to
say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered
to show me the room: it was on the second floor,
and there was a small corridor leading up to it.
The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
to go downstairs again when I saw something that made
me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years’
experience. From under the door there curled
a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting
at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought
the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw
it. The door was locked on the inside, but we
put our shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The
window of the room was open, and beside the window,
all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress.
He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for
his limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned
him over, the Boots recognized him at once as being
the same gentleman who had engaged the room under
the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death
was a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated
the heart. And now comes the strangest part of
the affair. What do you suppose was above the
murdered man?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and
a presentiment of coming horror, even before Sherlock
Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of
blood,” he said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade,
in an awe-struck voice; and we were all silent for
a while.
There was something so methodical
and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown
assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to
his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough
on the field of battle tingled as I thought of it.
“The man was seen,” continued
Lestrade. “A milk boy, passing on his way
to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which
leads from the mews at the back of the hotel.
He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there,
was raised against one of the windows of the second
floor, which was wide open. After passing, he
looked back and saw a man descend the ladder.
He came down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined
him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond
thinking in his own mind that it was early for him
to be at work. He has an impression that the man
was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in a
long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the
room some little time after the murder, for we found
blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed
his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had deliberately
wiped his knife.”
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the
description of the murderer, which tallied so exactly
with his own. There was, however, no trace of
exultation or satisfaction upon his face.
“Did you find nothing in the
room which could furnish a clue to the murderer?”
he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had
Drebber’s purse in his pocket, but it seems
that this was usual, as he did all the paying.
There was eighty odd pounds in it, but nothing had
been taken. Whatever the motives of these extraordinary
crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them.
There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered
man’s pocket, except a single telegram, dated
from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the
words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’
There was no name appended to this message.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance.
The man’s novel, with which he had read himself
to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on
a chair beside him. There was a glass of water
on the table, and on the window-sill a small chip
ointment box containing a couple of pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair
with an exclamation of delight.
“The last link,” he cried,
exultantly. “My case is complete.”
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“I have now in my hands,”
my companion said, confidently, “all the threads
which have formed such a tangle. There are, of
course, details to be filled in, but I am as certain
of all the main facts, from the time that Drebber
parted from Stangerson at the station, up to the discovery
of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them with
my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge.
Could you lay your hand upon those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade,
producing a small white box; “I took them and
the purse and the telegram, intending to have them
put in a place of safety at the Police Station.
It was the merest chance my taking these pills, for
I am bound to say that I do not attach any importance
to them.”
“Give them here,” said
Holmes. “Now, Doctor,” turning to
me, “are those ordinary pills?”
They certainly were not. They
were of a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost
transparent against the light. “From their
lightness and transparency, I should imagine that
they are soluble in water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered
Holmes. “Now would you mind going down and
fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which
has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted
you to put out of its pain yesterday.”
I went downstairs and carried the
dog upstair in my arms. It’s laboured breathing
and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its
end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed
that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine
existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the
rug.
“I will now cut one of these
pills in two,” said Holmes, and drawing his
penknife he suited the action to the word. “One
half we return into the box for future purposes.
The other half I will place in this wine glass, in
which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive
that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it
readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,”
said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who suspects
that he is being laughed at, “I cannot see, however,
what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience!
You will find in time that it has everything to do
with it. I shall now add a little milk to make
the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the
dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents
of the wine glass into a saucer and placed it in front
of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock
Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced
us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal
intently, and expecting some startling effect.
None such appeared, however. The dog continued
to lie stretched upon tho cushion, breathing
in a laboured way, but apparently neither the better
nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and
as minute followed minute without result, an expression
of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared
upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed
his fingers upon the table, and showed every other
symptom of acute impatience. So great was his
emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means
displeased at this check which he had met.
“It can’t be a coincidence,”
he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing
wildly up and down the room; “it is impossible
that it should be a mere coincidence. The very
pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are
actually found after the death of Stangerson.
And yet they are inert. What can it mean?
Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been
false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched
dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I
have it!” With a perfect shriek of delight he
rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved
it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier.
The unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly
to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive
shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless
as if it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath,
and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“I should have more faith,” he said; “I
ought to know by this time that when a fact appears
to be opposed to a long train of deductions, it invariably
proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation.
Of the two pills in that box one was of the most deadly
poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I
ought to have known that before ever I saw the box
at all.”
This last statement appeared to me
to be so startling, that I could hardly believe that
he was in his sober senses. There was the dead
dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been
correct. It seemed to me that the mists in my
own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began
to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.
“All this seems strange to you,”
continued Holmes, “because you failed at the
beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of
the single real clue which was presented to you.
I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything
which has occurred since then has served to confirm
my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical
sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed
you and made the case more obscure, have served to
enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.
It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery.
The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious
because it presents no new or special features from
which deductions may be drawn. This murder would
have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had
the body of the victim been simply found lying in
the roadway without any of those outre and
sensational accompaniments which have rendered it
remarkable. These strange details, far from making
the case more difficult, have really had the effect
of making it less so.”
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this
address with considerable impatience, could contain
himself no longer. “Look here, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” he said, “we are all ready to
acknowledge that you are a smart man, and that you
have your own methods of working. We want something
more than mere theory and preaching now, though.
It is a case of taking the man. I have made my
case out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier
could not have been engaged in this second affair.
Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears
that he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints
here, and hints there, and seem to know more than
we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have
a right to ask you straight how much you do know of
the business. Can you name the man who did it?”
“I cannot help feeling that
Gregson is right, sir,” remarked Lestrade.
“We have both tried, and we have both failed.
You have remarked more than once since I have been
in the room that you had all the evidence which you
require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer.”
“Any delay in arresting the
assassin,” I observed, “might give him
time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.”
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed
signs of irresolution. He continued to walk up
and down the room with his head sunk on his chest
and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost
in thought.
“There will be no more murders,”
he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing us.
“You can put that consideration out of the question.
You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin.
I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small
thing, however, compared with the power of laying
our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly
to do. I have good hopes of managing it through
my own arrangements; but it is a thing which needs
delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate
man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had
occasion to prove, by another who is as clever as
himself. As long as this man has no idea that
anyone can have a clue there is some chance of securing
him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would
change his name, and vanish in an instant among the
four million inhabitants of this great city. Without
meaning to hurt either of your feelings, I am bound
to say that I consider these men to be more than a
match for the official force, and that is why I have
not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall,
of course, incur all the blame due to this omission;
but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready
to promise that the instant that I can communicate
with you without endangering my own combinations,
I shall do so.”
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be
far from satisfied by this assurance, or by the depreciating
allusion to the detective police. The former had
flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
other’s beady eyes glistened with curiosity
and resentment. Neither of them had time to speak,
however, before there was a tap at the door, and the
spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced
his insignificant and unsavoury person.
“Please, sir,” he said,
touching his forelock, “I have the cab downstairs.”
“Good boy,” said Holmes,
blandly. “Why don’t you introduce
this pattern at Scotland Yard?” he continued,
taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer.
“See how beautifully the spring works. They
fasten in an instant.”
“The old pattern is good enough,”
remarked Lestrade, “if we can only find the
man to put them on.”
“Very good, very good,”
said Holmes, smiling. “The cabman may as
well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step
up, Wiggins.”
I was surprised to find my companion
speaking as though he were about to set out on a journey,
since he had not said anything to me about it.
There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this
he pulled out and began to strap. He was busily
engaged at it when the cabman entered the room.
“Just give me a help with this
buckle, cabman,” he said, kneeling over his
task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat
sullen, defiant air, and put down his hands to assist.
At that instant there was a sharp click, the jangling
of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
“Gentlemen,” he cried,
with flashing eyes, “let me introduce you to
Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber
and of Joseph Stangerson.”
The whole thing occurred in a moment so
quickly that I had no time to realize it. I have
a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’
triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of
the cabman’s dazed, savage face, as he glared
at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as
if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two
we might have been a group of statues. Then,
with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched
himself free from Holmes’s grasp, and hurled
himself through the window. Woodwork and glass
gave way before him; but before he got quite through,
Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like
so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the
room, and then commenced a terrific conflict.
So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four of
us were shaken off again and again. He appeared
to have the convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic
fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled
by his passage through the glass, but loss of blood
had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It
was not until Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand
inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that
we made him realize that his struggles were of no
avail; and even then we felt no security until we had
pinioned his feet as well as his hands. That
done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.
“We have his cab,” said
Sherlock Holmes. “It will serve to take
him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,”
he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we have
reached the end of our little mystery. You are
very welcome to put any questions that you like to
me now, and there is no danger that I will refuse
to answer them.”